


over and over, i found you

by LunaChai



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 16:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20642465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaChai/pseuds/LunaChai
Summary: "Why don't we knock out two birds with one stone?" Sylvain says brightly. "You'll get a dashing husband from a prominent family, and I'll have attained the love of my life. Let's get married."Ingrid socks him in the face.or; Sylvain and Ingrid, and the twisting road of childhood friends becoming lovers.





	over and over, i found you

Sylvain Jose Gautier first proposes to Ingrid Brandl Galatea at seven years old.

They're too young to fully understand promised marriages and birth arrangements, and even if he did understand, he probably would've done it anyway, because he's seven. He thinks he's elegant and suave, but what comes out of his mouth is probably more along the lines of, _Hi please marry me._

"No," says Ingrid, blunt and no-nonsense with sharp eyes and a button nose.

Sylvain's jaw drops. "_No?_"

"No," repeats Ingrid.

"But why?"

Ingrid shrugs. "I want to be a knight."

In all the drama of seven years old, Sylvain feels his heart _literally_ breaking in half. "You can't do that!" he yells, tears blinding him. "_I_ want to be a knight!"

"We can all be knights, dumbass," says Felix sharply, poking into their conversation.

Ingrid and Sylvain clap their small hands to their mouths at his naughty, naughty language.

"Felix," Ingrid chides.

"Ooooh, I'm telling," Sylvain says.

Felix flushes crimson. "Shut up!" he says, and swings his wooden sword at them.

They shriek in laughter. Romance and marriage is forgotten, replaced by a mock battle of the epic legend of Grondor Field.

.

.

.

The next time Sylvain proposes, they're at the Officer's Academy.

A lot has happened—too much, really. Learning of Ingrid's engagement from birth. Watching her and Glenn Freldarius slowly becoming close. Hearing of the Tragedy of Duscur, seeing the memorial rafts burned as they're sent into the ocean. Years passing, wounds healing, time ticking on, until they're all at Garreg Mach, honing their skills in battle.

Everything has changed, but the three of them are always constant: closely knit and thick as thieves.

Sylvain is with Felix at the training grounds running through footwork when Ingrid drops in. The look on her face is dark, and she seizes her training spear like she's ready to harpoon the first thing she sees.

Sylvain winces. "Suitor?" he guesses.

Ingrid flicks her bangs out of her face. "Yeah."

Felix lowers his blade. "Who was it this time?"

Ingrid sighs, low and frustrated. "I thought I'd be fine. Dorothea didn't. She got the professor involved to watch my back, just in case."

Silence falls over the training grounds. Felix and Sylvain exchange a glance.

"Yeah." Ingrid kicks at the ground. "Let's just say we had a sizable welcome party. He wasn't interested in any serious negotiations. He just wanted to steal me away and bed me. Or sell me off to traders. I don't know."

_Dastard,_ Sylvain thinks.

A muscle in Felix's jaw twitches, and his hands clench on the hilt of his sword. "I'll pay him a visit," he says darkly.

"That's not necessary, Felix, but thank you. He's not worth the effort." Ingrid's smiling, but the pain isn't gone from her eyes. Being seen as worthless, as nothing more than a pawn or a source of pleasure, had to have hurt her esteem.

It makes something in Sylvain feel sore, and he racks his brain for a solution.

"I've noticed that your recent encounters with suitors have all been... less than savory," he says. "I know your House's situation isn't the best, but your dad could stand to be a _little_ more selective."

"It wasn't his fault," Ingrid says with a shrug. "With nobles, you just never know."

"But to fix all your problems," Sylvain says, "we just need to find you a good husband from a good House."

Ingrid pauses, and he sees sorrow flash over her eyes before she masks it. "Not really how I would put it, but I guess that's technically a solution."

Sylvain doesn't read the room in time.

"Then why don't we knock out two birds with one stone?" he says brightly. "You'll get a dashing husband from a prominent family, and I'll have attained the love of my life. Let's get married."

Ingrid socks him in the face.

.

.

.

The years whirl on. Fódlan splinters and Garreg Mach dissolves in flames.

Sylvain watches as Faerghus falls apart at the seams: Dimitri convicted and executed, Kingdom Houses turned against one another, the peaceful land bathed in blood to the beat of the encroaching Empire. Political tensions erupt into skirmishes and assassinations and even conquests, and he spends five years in and out of fighting, trusting no one except for Ingrid and Felix at his side.

It's almost mindless, really. Waking to wage war, and waging war for the right to wake the next day.

The tables turn when the professor resurfaces. Dimitri steps out of hiding, rising as if from the dead—even if twisted with bitterness and despair. Garreg Mach slowly fills with new life and purpose. And eventually, at the cost of the life of Felix's father, Dimitri turns from his path of bitter shadows and walks to the light.

For the first time in five years, hope sings in its quiet, lilting voice.

.

.

.

One day, everything changes.

They're en route to retake Fhirdiad when they encounter a group of hardened thieves. The professor spreads them out to cover as much ground as possible, and Sylvain takes to the skies, readying the flank.

His misfortune starts with a volley of arrows headed his direction. He pulls up short, but it's too late; the steel heads rip through his wyvern's wings, and with a roar, the creature starts pinwheeling towards the ground.

He lands right in enemy territory.

Sylvain doesn't have the time to bemoan his fate. The next hour is a whirlwind of nothing but frantic fighting as a unit of enemy soldiers descend on him—striking and dodging and parrying in a desperate gamble for survival, swinging his axe until it shatters bone and sears through flesh.

He's almost perfect, almost. There's a heavy blow, and something tears deep into his side and rips out. He feels warm liquid gushing down his hip and coating the plates of his leg, and he knows it's his own blood.

The final soldier lunges at him, and he moves with a flare of adrenaline, hurling his axe with a final burst of strength. The hatchet strikes true, splitting the soldier's skull and sending his corpse crashing to the ground.

Sylvain lies there on the field, bleeding out next to his felled wyvern. He hears the professor's disembodied voice in his head from when he lost his steed during flying lessons: _Dammit, Sylvain, wyverns don't just grow on trees._

He smiles vaguely, and even that small movement feels like he's pulling through molasses.

_Sorry, Professor._

He closes his eyes.

He can't move.

There's a ruffle of wings, and something lands solidly next to him. He looks up blearily, and sees a figure of light blocking out the sun, pale hair flaring like fiery clouds.

"Seiros?" he says dazedly. Is he already in heaven?

The figure stoops close, and its face solidifies into someone he knows: Ingrid, gaze sharp and mouth tight.

"Hand to side, now," Ingrid says, harsh and quick. "Keep your eyes open. Stay with me."

She _yanks_ him onto the back of her pegasus, and he cringes, waiting for agony to explode in his side—

—but he feels nothing, only a vague numbness.

_Oh,_ he thinks. _That's not good._

And then: _I'm in shock._

And then, and then: _I think I'm going to die._

He feels Ingrid snap her heels against her pegasus, and they're soaring into the air. He keeps his hand pressuring his side, but knows it's bad when the blood squeezes through his fingers. The world spins beneath him, but his thoughts keep coming, each one increasingly sharp and clear.

_I won't be able to say goodbye to everyone._

_Do I want to get buried or cremated?_

_Who will cry at my funeral? Maybe Felix. Not Dimitri. Definitely not Ingrid._

His body jolts, and he suddenly realizes that they've already touched down. Ingrid's voice is blurry in his ears as she calls for Mercedes, dismounting the pegasus. He's lowered to the ground, and a soft blue glow fills his vision as Mercedes stoops over him.

"Thank you, Mercedes," Ingrid says brusquely, and she's already mounting her pegasus and taking off to the skies again.

He slips away into darkness. He remembers nothing more.

.

.

.

Sylvain wakes when it's dark.

He's ready to head back out, but Mercedes informs him that the battle is already won, and that he must rest to fully recover. On the outside, his wounds have been stitched together with magic, but his body is still low on blood and weak from the trauma.

Most of his comrades drop by to check on him—Felix and Dimitri, Professor Byleth, Ashe and Annette and even Dedue. There's only one conspicuous absence from his bedside.

"Can you call for Ingrid?" Sylvain asks Mercedes. "I'd like to thank her for saving my ass back there."

Mercedes smiles weakly and looks decidedly awkward. A long silence pervades the tent as she searches for something to say.

Oh.

Ingrid is avoiding him.

"Never mind," Sylvain says quickly. "I just remembered, she said she'd be busy today."

"Oh, alright," says Mercedes, visibly relieved. A holy woman cannot lie.

She leaves his tent with instructions to rest until the celebration dinner that night. Sylvain closes his eyes, trying to quiet his racing mind.

Ingrid's never avoided him before.

.

.

.

Ingrid's absence extends to the celebration dinner.

Sylvain's eyes rove the giant mess tent, but she's nowhere to be found among the piles of grilled meat and rousing laughter. Dimitri notices his distraction and looks up from his plate.

"What ails you?" Dimitri asks, refined tone at complete odds with his unkempt hair.

Sylvain jolts and quickly refocuses on his plate. "Not much."

"Is it your wound?"

It's pulsing and aching a little, but not distractingly so. "Nah, that's fine."

Dimitri bites into an herb-grilled drumstick, waiting. Sylvain pauses.

Then:

"I think that Ingrid's mad at me."

Dimitri lowers the drumstick, considering this. "Because she was avoiding you today?" he says.

Sylvain winces. Was it really that obvious? Or worse yet—had she told Dimitri why she was avoiding him? Had she told Felix? Had she told the entire camp except him?

"You know that she's merely worried, right?" Dimitri says, casting him a significant look.

Sylvain blinks. "Really?"

Ingrid hadn't seemed worried when she'd saved him. Ingrid never seemed worried for him. Ingrid always stepped in and cleaned up his mistakes, no-nonsense and snappish and rightfully pissed, and this time had been the same. She'd jumped in before the situation had gotten too messy, worked her magic, and jumped out, intent on scolding him later.

Dimitri only claps him on the back. Sylvain staggers at the force, coughing.

"Speak with her," Dimitri says. "You'll see what I mean."

.

.

.

He finds Ingrid pacing without direction at the outskirts of their encampment. It's an odd look for her; she's always so filled with purpose, and she always knows what to do.

Here, she just seems... lost.

"Ingrid," he calls, and her head snaps in his direction.

He expects her to relax when she sees him, but she doesn't; if anything, she only tenses up. He approaches her, frowning.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

She looks away. "Good to see you up and about."

He waits for her to say something else, but she doesn't. "You're missing the dinner," he says. "Meat. _All_ the meat. Your favorite."

She exhales. "Maybe later."

He doesn't understand. She's never acted like this before. "Uh. You sure?"

She turns to him, and the moonlight hits her, and that's when he sees.

Her hands are shaking.

She's already stripped her gloves, and that just makes the trembling more apparent—her long, lithe fingers uncertain as they clutch together. Sylvain gently reaches down and rests his hand on hers, but she jerks away with a shaky breath, running her fingers through her hair.

"Ingrid," he says, puzzled.

She looks away, her voice tight. "Just... give me some space."

He's heard that request from her many times—often when she feels the pressure of upholding her house at the cost of sacrificing her dreams. But this time, it sounds different. This time, it sounds like she doesn't actually want to be alone.

_You know that she's merely worried, right?_

Sylvain meets her gaze. "It's happened before," he says quietly. "You know that I always come back."

She breathes out, and he knows he's hit the nail on the head. "You didn't see yourself."

He waits patiently and she searches for words.

"You've been injured before, but not like that. Hunched over, blood pouring out, soaking everything, and your eyes... they wouldn't focus on anything, that's what really scared me. I thought to myself, _Seiros, this is it._ This is the time he's done it. Sylvain Jose Gautier, he's finally gone and killed himself."

"It only looked bad," Sylvain says. "It didn't feel that bad."

"Because your whole body was in shock," Ingrid snaps. "You were losing so much blood, and you were going to _die._ We were too far from a healer, and even if we got to one, I didn't know if magic could patch up a wound that severe. You almost died, Sylvain, for real. It terrified me."

The honesty of her admission makes his pulse both fall and soar—fall because he can sense the fear in her voice, and soar because of what it means. He draws his arms around around her, swallowing.

"I'm sorry, Ing," he says.

She lets her head fall against his shoulder with a dull thud. "I need to get used to it. People get hurt. People die. It's war. That's what war is, people getting hurt and dying so other people don't have to."

She raises her head, her eyes clear and vibrant and drawing him in.

"I just wish it didn't have to be you," she says quietly.

Sylvain stops breathing.

Seiros, she's beautiful in the shimmer of the moonlight, looking up at him with such gentle worry, her hair like spun platinum in the night. He feels his hand rise to tenderly trace her cheek with one finger. Something thuds differently in his chest, and in the silence, he changes.

"Ingrid," he says thickly.

Ingrid's eyes widen and she breaks away, brushing off her skirt. She stretches her arms with a yawn that isn't entirely real.

"Well, I'm beat—we're all beat from that battle," she says in a rush. "You especially need to sleep. You'll need rest after that injury. Good night, Sylvain. Oh, and drink lots of water."

She strides off into the night, returning to her tent. Sylvain's hand lowers.

He stands there for a very long time, listening to his heart singing a different tune, then returns to bed.

.

.

.

_"Ingrid."_

The look on his face had been so different, tender and intense, with eyes smoldering and mouth set in a serious line, voice tinged with huskiness—

Ingrid slaps herself on the cheeks, cursing under her breath. She's not here to daydream; she's here to focus. This was exactly what the everyday woman saw in Sylvain, and it was exactly how he lured them in. She'd always known he was handsome, and this is no different.

She can't let herself be swept away. Not to get abandoned in the end. Not like everyone else.

.

.

.

"Morning, beautiful."

Sylvain pops into the stables with a jaunty grin the next morning. Ingrid only responds by rolling her eyes.

_Everything's normal. Make everything normal._

"What did you do now?" she says, lifting a brow.

"Whoa, now," Sylvain says, raising his hands. "Does something have to be wrong for me to talk to you?"

"Whenever you talk to me, something's usually wrong, whether you know it or not." She crosses her arms like it'll protect the skipping in her chest. _Back to normal, back to the usual._ "New fling? Bad breakup? Spurned attentions? When will you learn to stop flirting around?"

There's an odd look on his face. He tilts his head, surveying her.

"You know that I haven't flirted in months, right?" he says.

The words slam her in the chest—not because of what he says, but _because_ he says them. Sylvain shouldn't have said those words. Not aloud, not to her. His womanizer persona has always been something of a security blanket—something that kept their friendship familiar and steady.

Not normal. Not the usual.

Ingrid backpedals, clearing her throat. "You _have_ been doing remarkably well recently," she concedes. She raises her brow again. "Are you plotting something?"

"My lady, I would never."

"Uh-huh." She eases slightly, and her eyes drop down to his side. She gnaws on her lip, letting concern take over for a moment. "How's the wound holding up?"

Sylvain doesn't respond.

Her eyes snap up to him. He's staring at her—no, not just at her, at her mouth, where her teeth are catching on her lower lip. She quickly stops, feeling her cheeks warm. Why is he acting so strange? He's throwing her off guard, and she doesn't like it.

"Sylvain," she says, sharper than she intends.

Sylvain blinks. "Huh?" he says.

"Wound. How's it doing?"

He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sore, but much better than it should be. Mercedes said it's because you got me to her so quickly. Thanks for that."

"Oh." She looks away. "Good thing I'm a fast flier, huh?" She's pretty sure that she broke several records getting him to Mercedes. Not that she'd admit that to him. If she did, he might start getting the wrong idea.

"Yeah, good thing," Sylvain says softly, and _would he stop speaking like that._ If he keeps it up, _she'll_ start getting the wrong idea.

Ingrid rolls her shoulders, suddenly feeling the urge to end this conversation. "I'd better get to flying drills. See you at lunch."

"Yeah," Sylvain says, still in that soft voice.

_Stop being so weird,_ she wants to snap, but the words catch in her throat. She wordlessly mounts her pegasus and soars into the sky.

Things are different.

Things are _not_ the usual.

.

.

.

Their next skirmish is a dangerous one in the city, and it's almost Ingrid's undoing. Even amidst the chaos and bloodshed and desperation of war, she's too distracted looking out for Sylvain.

She tries to screw her head on straight, to keep herself from glancing in his direction, but it only makes matters worse. When she's not looking for him, she's worrying. She remembers seeing him bleeding out on the field, limp and lifeless with his eyes closed, and she remembers how it felt when she believed for one heartstopping moment that he was actually dead. She remembers how her gut had dropped, how her veins had flooded with ice, how she'd torn down from the skies, whispering _no no please no_ over and over to a nameless god.

She doesn't want to feel that way again. She's afraid that if she takes her eyes off of him for one moment, he'll be hit again, and this time, she'll be too late.

But she's too busy looking for him, checking his position after every strike, that she fails to note her surroundings, and—

"Ingrid!"

Motion blurs through the sky, and Sylvain's wyvern tackles Ingrid's pegasus head-on. The thick bolt of a ballista skims right above Ingrid's head, so close that she can hear the whistle through its fletchings as it passes.

It takes them a moment to recover balance—for the steeds to turn right-side-up, for them to settle back in their saddles. When they do, Sylvain turns to her, his eyes flashing.

"Keep it together," he snaps—he never snaps. "You're in a warzone right now, remember?"

She's so taken aback—by Sylvain's sudden ferocity, by her near-death—that she stares blankly instead of snapping back.

"Alright," is what she says, and her own voice sounds distant to her ears.

Sylvain's glare hardens, and he looks like he wants to say more, but instead he banks left and glides away. Ingrid shakes her head to clear her thoughts. She has a job to do, and so does he.

When they touch down later, stronghold conquered and enemies waving the white flag, Sylvain strides to her without hesitation and grasps her by the shoulders. His eyes methodically pick apart her frame like a doctor, searching for injuries.

"Sylvain," she says, "I'm fine."

Sylvain's eyes snap back to her. "That ballista was almost a headshot, Ing. There's no coming back from that one."

"Well, clearly, my head is still on my shoulders, so we're good." She tries not to sound too abrasive. She fails.

"I've never seen you so distracted. What's going on?"

She's not used to seeing him so serious. She's not used to any of this. The feeling of his hands is burning into her shoulders and he's too close. She instinctively swats his arms away, breathing deeply—a mistake, because even among the smoke and iron she can catch a whiff of his cologne, and it hits her chest in a flare of warmth.

"I guess I was just tired," she says lamely.

Sylvain's eyes narrow. "Seriously?"

"What? I get tired too."

"No, I meant, seriously, you're lying to me after _that_ happened?"

She grimaces. She screwed up. "You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied to you."

"Then what's been taking up all your attention?" Sylvain asks.

_You,_ Ingrid almost says—it's on the way to her mouth through her throat, but she manages to clamp it down. She can't say that. She can't possibly say that. She doesn't know what it would mean.

"It won't happen again," is all she says with a firm nod. "Thanks for watching my back."

"That's not... You're welcome." Sylvain rubs at his temples.

He should have walked away, maybe with a simple, noncommittal pat on the shoulder. That's what Sylvain Jose Gautier should have done. That's what their friendship has always been—brisk and no-nonsense, snappy and fun.

Instead, he wraps an arm around her waist and draws her close, pressing his cheek to her hair. His hand sears where it rests on her hip. She feels a quiet breath by her ear.

"Don't make me worry, okay?" he murmurs.

He releases her and walks away, fetching a rag to clean his equipment. Ingrid stands by her pegasus, frozen to the ground.

She doesn't know how to navigate this. It's like flying for the first time, trying to understand speed and direction in three axes instead of two, tumbling through unfamiliar gear and steeds and maneuvers.

She doesn't know what it means to be Ingrid Brandl Galatea with Sylvain Jose Gautier anymore.

.

.

.

Everything is different. Meals are different, study sessions are different, training is different.

On the surface, nothing's changed. They still spar the same, study the same, banter the same. They still share quips and insults, offset by the occasional heartfelt compliment or uneasy doubt.

But in the little moments, nothing is the same.

Every time Sylvain speaks to Ingrid, she feels off-kilter. She's flailing to find the new rules and boundaries, only to find nothing. Sylvain smashes it all down with his brief but frequent touches: a tap on her shoulder, a pat on her back, his fingers lingering whenever they brush hers.

Before, they'd touch, but it was always casual and playful. Not this; not anymore. There's a slowness to each motion, almost like he's savoring every point of contact. His hands lie on her shoulder just a little too softly, and he hugs her for just a second too long. When he looks at her, his gaze is warmer, almost gentle.

Or she's just gone mad. By Seiros, that's what this is, isn't it? He's infected her with something, and now she sees things that aren't there.

She hates it. The world is already chaotic and uncertain enough; she wants stability where she can have it. She wants the old Ingrid and Sylvain back, she wants the predictability back.

Or maybe she just wants to know that nothing will change between them.

Maybe she just wants to know that she won't lose him.

.

.

.

Enbarr arrives. Or rather, they arrive at Enbarr, setting up a ramshackle encampment to repair their weapons and manage the items in their packs.

Ingrid is in the weapons tent, picking up her freshened silver lance when Sylvain ducks inside. He pauses when he sees her, but shakes it off, hefting a tomahawk in his hands before setting it down.

"Into the jaws of Death we fly," he says.

"Whether we live or whether we die," Ingrid says.

"Today we slay for Son and Wife," Sylvain finishes, then grins at her. "You read that poem? I never knew."

"You read? I never knew," Ingrid says with a teasing elbow in the side.

"Would it surprise you to know that I'm one of the most educated nobles in Fódlan?"

"Despite your best attempts."

"I'm sorely offended."

"You're the one who kept playing hooky," Ingrid says, her lips pulling up. "Which is a tragedy, because you were brilliant when you actually applied yourself."

Sylvain blinks. "That might be the nicest thing you've ever said about me."

She flushes and clears her throat. "Well—the key word here being _when._ You basically never applied yourself."

"I'd refute you if you were wrong." His smile fades. "I'd like to think I've gotten better at it after fighting for my life for five years."

The weight in the air returns. It carries a note of finality, because they both know—this might be the day where they win it all, but it might be the day where none of them come back.

"You _have_ gotten better at it," Ingrid says softly. "You're an incredible fighter. Fearless, smart, strong."

Sylvain's eyes widen. Ingrid swears that a hint of color blooms on his cheeks. "Uh. Thanks. You... too."

She's glad that she said it. This might be her last chance to speak with him.

Of course, if they both survive, he'll never let her live this down.

The war horn sounds in the distance, calling for them to take up their positions. Sylvain blinks, and in that moment, everything is back to normal.

"See you on the other side," he says with a daring grin.

She smirks back. "I'll race you there."

He laughs, gives a cheeky salute, and ducks out of the tent. She feels a little tinge of disappointment, but shakes it away. This isn't the time to expect more. This is the final battle, the home stretch. Neither of them have the luxury to even consider—

The tent flap draws to the side and Sylvain steps back in, his face unusually serious.

Ingrid feels her pulse give a sharp jolt. She swallows before she speaks. "Did you forget something?"

"Yeah," Sylvain says, and he strides to her.

She thuds against his chest as his arms wrap around her, careful of the armor plates covering them. He pulls her close, almost intimate, and breathes light and quiet on her brow.

This isn't a thing Ingrid and Sylvain do, this isn't normal and the usual—but something in her sighs and uncoils, like this is exactly what she wanted.

_Oh._

Sylvain presses his nose into the top of her head. "Ingrid. Will you meet me at the Goddess Tower after this?"

It's a promise to pull through, to survive, to win.

For one moment, Ingrid allows herself to stop thinking. She closes her eyes and sinks into him, accepting the warmth of his hold and the shape of his mouth against her hair. Her hands slide around him, pulling him closer, and she hears a catch in his throat.

"Yes," she promises back.

.

.

.

Enbarr falls, and with it, Edelgard von Hresvelg.

The war draws to an end with King Dimitri at the helm, waving the flag of Faerghus, sapphire-and-gold glittering in the sun—this time, as a promise of peace, not a promise of bloodshed.

They've won.

.

.

.

Sylvain waits at the top of the Goddess Tower, pacing nervously. His palms are sweaty and his heart is throbbing. For all of his past experience and grandeur, he feels like nothing more than an anxious, foolish young man in love.

He hears soft footsteps echoing up the stairwell, and bites his tongue to keep himself from swearing.

Seiros help him.

A figure materializes from the shadows—Ingrid, dressed in her tunic of mint and forest green, stripped of her armor. "Hey," she says. Her tone is strange tonight; a little more hesitant, a little more delicate, like she's treading on eggshells.

"Hey," Sylvain manages.

_This is it._

Everything that they'd been through, every twist and every turn—it's all led to this. This is the moment of truth, and he has to put everything on the line.

Ingrid crosses her arms and looks out of the window, watching how the silvery moonlight falls on the monastery. Her face is carefully reserved, the outline of it caressed with vibrant sterling light.

"It feels kind of strange that the war is actually over, doesn't it?" she says. "We've been fighting for so long."

_Yes, we have._ Too many things, in too many ways.

"It _is_ strange," Sylvain says. "I've been living one way for so long. And now, things have a chance to be different... but it's scary."

Ingrid nods. "Exactly. For five years, it's just been... war. Constant war. The fact that we actually managed to attain peace—I won't lie, it feels amazing. But also terrifying. We spent our youth fighting. What's left?"

"Something new," Sylvain says, his throat feeling hoarse.

Ingrid laughs softly. "What's new is disappointment," she says. "Either I relocate to the castle and strive down the path of the knight, disappointing my father and my House—or I get married and settle down, disappointing myself."

There's a moment of silence. The air between them grows stiff, stretched thin and brittle.

"Sorry," Ingrid says quickly. "I should be celebrating. There's a lot to celebrate, after all—His Highness ascending the throne, the announcement of his union with the professor, the peace treaties being written and signed—"

"No, it's fine," says Sylvain. "I was just thinking for a solution to your problem."

Ingrid shrugs. "Maybe there isn't one. Life is about choices and trade-offs, anyway. You can't always have your cake and eat it; that's just how things are."

"But maybe _you_ can."

Her eyes cut to him from the window.

"Ingrid," he says, and breathes deeply.

Seiros, it's so much more terrifying when you have something to actually lose.

He wants to fall back on old habits, gushing about her exquisite beauty or the destiny that brought them together, appeal to a sense of romance and adventure, spin a perfect composition with the most delicate language—

But she deserves more than that. She deserves more than what he's given countless other girls.

He closes his eyes for a moment. Ingrid is waiting, watching. He can't read her, and it's even more terrifying.

"Why don't we knock out two birds with one stone?" he says.

His voice fills the silence. The Goddess Tower says nothing back.

He takes a moment to stabilize himself. Adrenaline is slamming in his veins, like he's standing before the gates of Enbarr all over again. Before, the world was at stake. And now, _his_ world is at stake.

There's a lump in his throat when he opens his eyes and speaks.

"You'll get a dashing husband from a prominent family, and I'll—I'll have"—oh Seiros, there's tears in his eyes, he's _crying,_ he's choking up and embarrassing himself—"I'll have attained... the love of my life."

Ingrid's lips part. Her cheeks are flushed, her frame completely still. She's not even breathing.

"Ingrid," says Sylvain, and he's grinning through his tears, "Ingrid, Ingrid Brandl Galatea, please, marry me. Marry me while becoming Faerghus's greatest knight."

He sees her swallow. Her hands clasp tightly in front of her.

"You wanted to marry someone who wouldn't use you for your family or your Crest," she says shakily. Saints, she sounds so warm, so compassionate, so _scared,_ all because she doesn't want to hurt him. Banter and repartee aside, she cares so deeply. "I don't want to use you. I don't. Sylvain, you're more than that. So much more."

He laughs a bit hoarsely, stepping towards her. "Someone who's worried about that won't actually use me."

"You know my family. You know where Galatea is at, what my father's looking for."

Another step. "You're not him."

Ingrid lifts her chin as he draws near, and it's his turn to ask a question.

He steps closer. "Do you think I'm telling the truth?"

Her hands tighten, but her gaze holds firm. "I know you are," she says.

His chest swells. He doesn't ask what's convincing her—the tears, the fumbling words, the recent behavior. Maybe she's like him and she can sense how they've changed, little by little, plates shifting beneath the surface.

"Ingrid, I want you." He stops in front of her, waiting, his eyes cutting deep into her. "Do you want me?"

There's a silence that stretches on, punctured by nothing but a gentle breeze that lifts Ingrid's hair like a golden halo.

"Yes," she whispers. "I want you."

It's enough.

His arms yank her close and his mouth crashes on hers. She's flush against him, fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair. It's like a string has snapped between them, and in a blink of an eye, the careful, uncertain distance is gone. She's warm and supple, lithe and sturdy, and he feels like a drowning man who's come up for air.

When he breaks away, they're breathing heavily, flushed and silent. He rests his forehead on hers, absorbing the moment. Ingrid's hands lower and her fingers tangle with his.

"You don't know how long I've wanted to do that," Sylvain rasps with a chuckle.

Ingrid's hair is mussed and her ribbons are in disarray, but her eyes are glittering with mirth. "I think I have an idea," she says.

"No way." He gapes. "You wanted the same? Since when?"

She releases his hands to hit him in the shoulder, embarrassed. "Not important."

"I disagree. This is very important. My ego is fragile and could always use a boost."

She raises a brow. "Fragile. Really."

"Dainty, like a maiden."

"Oh, you." She hooks her arm through his and rests her head on his shoulder. He feels lighter than air. "Are we engaged now?"

"I don't know. You never said yes."

She flushes deeply. "Are you serious?"

"You tell me," he teases.

She snorts, and raises her head to look him square in the eye. "Sylvain Jose Gautier," she says clearly, "I accept your proposal."

"Saints, you just took all the romance out of it."

"What did you want?"

"Some delicate tears and incoherent babbling would have been nice."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't push it."

He laughs brightly. He's full of so much joy and giddiness, and he kisses the top of her head. "Thank you, Miss Galatea, for accepting my humble proposal."

"Then would Sir Gautier fulfill one last request of mine?"

"Name it, up to half my kingdom."

She looks up at him with warmth in her cheeks, her smile unusually shy.

"Kiss me again," she says.

His heart soars. He leans down, his lips eagerly slanting over hers. And outside the window, the first rays of dawn, a tinge of something new, stretch into the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> i have a weakness for childhood friends and this is a result of my pain, please love these children
> 
> scream with me about invain on [my twitter!](https://twitter.com/lunachaili) (it should be sylgrid but i live for irony)


End file.
